been telling me that you are married! married this very day, and to that Mr. Arnold. Of course I did not believe it. I cross-questioned and contradicted, and contradicted and cross-questioned, and said that if you were engaged, I was sure it was to Mr. Montarre, the young foreigner I have sometimes seen at the Hall. But Mrs. Pye, as Leonard says, adhered to her text-it was Mr. Arnold the Barrister-and she had it from Mrs. Jones, herself, who in strict confidence had it from Mrs. Simms, &c., &c.; and in short, she persisted that it was perfectly cor

rect.

Write to me by return, dearest Agnes. Let me know how you became so intimate with Mr. Arnold,—if he have made his appearance again in London after his continental tour, and all about it. But I cannot I will not believe it. Surely you would have trusted the friend of your early youth with an event which so materially involves your happiness, for both this world and the next. There is no need for anything but the most transparent confidence between us, and you cannot love me the less for warning you against a connection with an avowed atheist. Oh, my dear Agnes, do not tell me that he is Is it thus you can trifle Have you forgotten that

so ardently attached to you. with your eternal interest?

the marriage compact is binding "till death us do part;" and are you willing to unite yourself irrecoverably in time, to one, from whom you shall be for ever separated in eternity? For our sake, as well as for your own sake, give him up-Oh, give him up. Let him marry some cold-hearted free-thinker like himself; for what sympathy

can you have with a miserable infidel?" What fellowship hath light with darkness, &c." Mr. Arnold will sneer at everything you hold sacred. He will not trust you, and you will not trust him, and you will be unhappy,-Oh, so wretchedly unhappy,-and-but I turn away with horror from the fearful prospect. There is not-there can be no truth in it. You have resolved to break it off,—and you will come to Clifton and pay us your long promised visit, and we shall talk it over by our own fireside, and sing

as we sometimes did last winter; and Leonard and I and my boys will do all we possibly can to make you happy; and you will never-never-never regret that you are not united to an unbeliever. When may we meet you at B- -with the old white horse and 'family gig?'

CHAPTER IV.

"She turn'd

To him who was to be sole shelterer now,
And placed her hand in his."

It was a festive day for Clifton when Agnes and Wallace were expected at the Old Hall, and again merrily-aye, right merrily were the village bells rung; and many a good and earnest wish ascended from the hearts of the villagers, as they kept holiday in their cottages or farms, and drunk to the health of the bride and bridegroom, in bowls of brown cider, brewed and bottled by

Mr. Fleetwood's own butler.

As to the Old Hall, we doubt not but it was one unvarying scene of bustle and excitement. Every thing was in preparation, and every body was 'up and doing,' even from early day break; and how did eyes sparkle, and hearts beat high with anticipation, when poor Dr. Fleetwood's old travelling carriage,-its shining yellow front, and two white horses, just discernable in the dusk of the evening, was seen winding its weary way along the avenue. Dinner was announced. The huge bell at the top of the house was made to shake its heavy tongue as clamorously as if it had life, and were hungry. Servants passed and repassed with dishes, and the atmosphere of the long dining room became savoury with soups and venison. Richard Fleetwood and his wife

and guests waited anxiously for the appearance of the Bride; and at length the little lady came in arrayed in her gay white robes, and leaning upon the arm of the Unbeliever. Then, the guests took their seats, and there was eating and drinking, and speechifying and congratulating.

But we will pass over the festivities of the evening, and return to our friends on the following day, when Nature herself bid them welcome in a morning of summer sunshine; and while the dew yet sparkled on the grass, and the air was perfumed with the breath of white hawthorn, they went out to luxuriate in the pleasure grounds, and talk over their party.

"But which was Mr. Smith?" asked Wallace, turning to Mrs. Fleetwood.

"The old gentleman,"-Mrs. Fleetwood began, but Agnes interrupted her, "Oh no, not that Mr. Smith, we are meaning the Rector."

"My dear, you know very well that Mr. Smith is not a dining man," returned Mrs. Fleetwood-"our Rector never goes out, Mr. Arnold,—at least not".

"To large dinner parties or balls, you know, Wallace," Agnes again interrupted, "but he will come and see us when we are alone, so let us go and invite him and Fanny."

"Remember it is Mrs. Smith's place to call upon you, and not yours to call upon Mrs. Smith, Agnes," said Mrs. Fleetwood, gravely.

Agnes laughed, and said she feared she never should succeed in squaring her feelings with Louisa's notions of etiquette.

"And this morning we will go to the farm," said Richard Fleetwood, "the new white farm," he added with an air of complacency; and assuredly, never since the new white farm was thatched and whitewashed did the country thereabouts look more attractive in its green apparel than it did this morning.

"Yes, we will go to the farm," echoed Mrs. Fleetwood. "And Agnes," her brother began, but Agnes had disappeared as if by magic, and in another moment she was recognised running with childish impatience towards the garden gate,-her long hair streaming in the breeze. Mrs. Fleetwood looked at Wallace for an explanation; -he protested that he was not in the secret.

"She knows her own way at all events," said Richard, looking after his sister, and then again turning towards the new white farm.

"It appears 'plain as way to parish church,'" said the Unbeliever, laughing.

"Ah, you know all about it," said Richard, "well, we will walk to the farm if you please, and then, I suppose we must follow her."

Meanwhile Agnes was in front of the said parish church, and crossing the quiet church yard-and there, were the mis-shapen or erect gravestones, irregularly interspersed among the living green grass, while white daisies and bright yellow meadow flowers opened their little petals to the warm sun, and bloomed in their May beauty, over the charnel houses of the dead. Agnes paused a moment, but it was only to admire the gorgeous coloring of a blue butterfly, as it fluttered by, alighted